Battle Scars
by Feather Gambler
Summary: Because nobody goes through life without a scar. A series of short narratives based on all of the characters and comparing them as they are with their weapons of choice. DISCONTINUED
1. Cronus plus Apathy

_**So this is a new project I'm working on. I know I am juggling the amount of work quite a bit, but the idea was gnawing at me. Forgive me, please? I am but a submissive human being that cannot handle the pressure of fresh schemes. ^^'**_

_**For those of you who don't care about my personal life, scroll down to the story. Otherwise, I have news! I am moving… to Canada! Which is overseas, which is in a different hemisphere which is far. If any of you have any advice concerning moving to a new country, or even moving in general, I would love to know! I'd also like to know what life in Canada is like, are there any rules I need to strictly adhere to? Are there certain words I need to know? What are the schools like? Anything you would think that would be useful, I'd really love to know. Culture Shock is not something I really want to go through.**_

…

_Cronus plus Apathy_

…

The blade glowed crimson, the gold of its pride marred and stained. He was much the same, his lustre dowsed with scars. The god considered himself for the second time in that short minute. He was golden, he was dwindling. He wasn't himself, but he was principled enough to taste his own dreary bitterness.

The weapon gleamed in his taut grip, glimmering like an insidious serpent. He was much the parallel of his metallic companion. Gold. It was the first thing to be seen. Like his divinity, and the sallow pallor of his godly skin, he was golden, deserving of praising eyes. And like the gold of his blade, he had to be moulded and warped to become the blazing head of ferocity that he was.

The razor point of this gold was sharp and pointed like his wicked gaze, or even the jagged hook of his own nose; striking and disfiguring the courage and valour of countless souls, whose bloodied names blemished the grains of Time.

Just as his weapon, all the colour and gleam were at the head, nothing but blackness falling further below, leaving behind the marks of his black heart as he would leave his mottled footsteps upon white marble. The blackness used only as a mechanism of control, and an appearance of supremacy… of coldness.

The weapon was perfect, and had its anticipated effect upon the spirits it tarnished; as did its wielder. No vulnerability, no discrepancy; only a glazed twinkle of distorted light to indicate any source of consternation. The light a signal of a proper love once lost; love of people, love of country, love of an old self-image, love of a long dissipated soul mate. Only a gleam in the eye of the head carried the clue to a burden, the rest drifting to bleak, useless darkness.

And like the blood dripping from the tip of his metallic warhead, he was scarred, distorted… and ready for more.

…

_**Not your typical Cronus. Because it's a kids' show, Cronus is one of those villains that are always easily foiled and made a fool of. I actually think he's one pretty scary guy from mythology. He has a personality, albeit an austere one, and he has hurts and bloodlust. He's not supposed to be a comedian.**_

_**I'm not against the cartoon's view of him, it's entertaining, but I just think there's more to him than what they put forward.**_

_**The whole project will consist of things like these, less than 500 words if I can help it. Symbolism is everywhere.**_

_**Please leave me a review and let me know if you like it, or if you have any suggestions for more.**_

_**Constructive criticism welcomed.**_

_**Love (and Happy Holidays),**_

_**~Toymaker**_

_||… Seriousness is the only refuge of the shallow …||_

_~Oscar Wilde_


	2. Forthright Affinity

_**Thank you berry much to my reviewers: HoneyGoddess57 and classofthetitans711 as well as my alerters/favers. Ya'll are awesome! =)**_

_**On a side note, I finished reading **_**Clockwork Prince**_** by Cassandra Clare for the third time a few days ago after getting it as an early Xmas gift. Is there anybody else who absolutely adores it as much as I do? =D**_

_**The character for this chapter is Jay.**_

…

_Forthright Affinity_

…

Steel: a cold iron, one enduring the heat of a single moment. As if he could touch its scarlet mired blade, the boy reached out and drew more than he felt required. The grey of the blade was not one to seek a bitter revenge, not one to hail an impassive strife. It was meant to bereave the selfish vanity only of those who deserved it, not spill guiltless blood. And such is how it was wielded.

Somehow the silver sparked, even in the darkness – a beacon of light, a glint of optimism that shone among a sextet of fellow warriors. A gleam of light to guide them to a long-sought victory. The steel of the leader's heart was not one to flee, instead to protect. The leafed bend of the sword would defend from heated wrath, like a silver canopy against a blackened sun.

But the double edge would often show in the sword's spirit, leaving him open, but leaving him fierce and prepared for smiting hands. The hilt was the heart, and the heart was in a form of pure gold; sturdy and clear-minded as a glass splinter. The hands that grasped the hilt were as rough as the sword's spirit, working endlessly towards one plausible gain.

The sword's point was sharp, invulnerable and deadly… but it was easily obfuscated by the souls of what it pierced. Blood would run its length, like insignias of barrenness, of empty lives. The sword too inflexible to bare it all in one blow.

There, within its golden heart, lay a precious burgundy gem; its hue epitomizing the fragility of what lay beneath the gold and silver wreaths. The metal was a hard shell, a means of barricading and encompassing its crux, so as to guard itself and stay as a whole.

The gem rested in the reach of only its owner, its guardian. For no other blinking soul was to look upon it, lest it shatter… and carry its armour with it.

…

_**I was in a bit of a mood, so sorry if it sounds morbid. When the word 'sword' appears, I am being ambiguous and it refers both to Jay and his Xyphos.**_

_**For accompaniment, search** _kuroshitsuji melody_** on youtube and choose the first video. I was listening to this when I wrote it.**_

_**It just gave me muse.**_

_**Symbolism is everywhere.**_

_**Thanks for reading! Have a lovely day. Please leave a review if you liked it, or even a suggestion for another character.**_

_**Love,**_

_**Toymaker**_

_****||...Absence from those we love is self from self - a deadly banishment...||_

_~ William Shakespeare  
><em>


	3. Disambiguating Derivations

_**Hello, All!**_

_**If anyone's noticed, I've changed my name. I felt unoriginal with Toymaker, because I got it from a book by Jeremy de Quidt. Feather Gambler is my own creation… I like it a lot more to be honest.**_

_**Sorry I've been off the radar, I'll do my best to make up for my absence, starting with a new drabble. Hopefully I'm not too rusty… *creaks***_

_**The character is Atlanta, as per Tinian I'att's suggestion.**_

_**Thanks to HoneyGoddess57, Tinian I'att, and Little Miss Illusional for reviewing! =)**_

…

_Disambiguating Derivations_

…

Confrontation: a word with ill-defined baggage trailing haphazardly along its length. A terrifying shot of levity to finagle a stark heart. She didn't believe the sights that met her had much value; not anymore. Tangled slurs of violence were all that rallied her wizened spirit, efforts of peace long dissipated from view in the battle field. It was _her_ turf, _her _territory, _her _peace that was besotted with the anger of what should have been _her_ life. Her wishes were no longer what she fought for.

The violence was not her will, it was foreign. She was the weapon, the proxy in a war that's load was never meant to befall her shoulders. But she carried it, like she carried the weight of her bow before her. The gadget was small, ethereal and only understood by skill; something that would easily fold in on itself when mistreated. It was something so easily demeaned because of its appearance; nothing that petite could ever be a threat.

That was where the flame sparked. A ray of anger, of fury at the need to prove oneself against conformity and a branded name; a deadly strike of radiance… for most the last light they would ever see. Her weapon blazed fast, a venomous trajectory that caught sight of anything and everything in its path. Though undermined, determination struck fast; and like her profound, complex bolas, she would cling to the problem until she could be the clear victor… the champion in the midst the degradation of a simple reputation.

Just a hint of trepidation would contort her resolve… and then: the transformation that brought forward the poisonous compassion she eagerly fought with.

_**...**_

_**I don't know, I feel I've missed something. Normally I would try and stay away from Atlanta because her character is quite complex. I think I need a bit more practice before I feel completely comfortable with her.**_

_**In all honesty, I don't think my writing style really does her any justice, and it was a little tough to incorporate both the crossbow and her bolas with her personality. I suppose I have to start somewhere.**_

_**Did I nail it? Did I completely blow it out of proportion? I'd love to know what you all thought =]**_

_**Constructive criticism most welcome.**_

_**Symbolism is everywhere.**_

_**~Feather Gambler**_


	4. Lucid Dreaming

_**So here we go, chapter 4.**_

_**Thank you to my reviewers: HoneyGoddess57, Tinian I'att, and Awesomeperson. You guys are super awesome!**_

_**The character for this chapter is Theresa, as chosen by Awesomeperson.**_

_**...**_

_Lucid Dreaming_

_**...**_

A bitter sweet moment; a tear of sullen passion. She laid there on the soft marble, her dreams surrounded by the dying ashes of her frail mentality. How long ws she meant to endure this? How long was she meant to be held captive by her own fear? What was she so afraid of?

The dullness in her eyes masked her thoughts of self-mutilation, her hair strung about her shoulders as she breathed in heavily. She was the fighter, the one meant to carry on when the need arose. Where was that need? Buried within the dark abyss that was her psyche? Somewhere within? There came the clouds, rising up to change her view, to overcome her with numbness and a prominent feeling of raw power in her core, living inside her - controlling her.

There was the devil. There lay the key to some kind of salvation. Within her was that untamed wildness that ebbed and flowed too masterfully for her to contain alone. But she _was_ alone, she had been for so long. No one else would be strong enough to bear the burden, her visions... her nightmares. Split in two, she was half dreaming and half awake, bordering on a crossroads, no longer whole - no longer a person.

She did not know what she was, she was only afraid. If her life was now a dream... how could she prevent herself from becoming a nightmare?

_**...**_

_**Kind of my take on how Theresa went berserk.**_

_**Please leave a review if you liked it or just want to say hi!**_

_**Also, please take the time to check out the poll for a new story that I've put up on my profile.**_

_**Merci!**_


	5. Sepulchral Pretense

_******Apologies for my prolonged absence from this site. Hopefully an update will make up for it. The character for this chapter is Herry.**_

_**...**_

_**Sepulchral Pretense**_

_**...**_

His strength wavered for a fraction of a second. His will scattered silently along with it. Blood pounded persistently in his ears, it snaked the floor beneath him like insidious shadows. Every crevice and every crack was stained with the sticky fluid, including the calloused creases on his palms and fingertips. That moment of fear and weakness suddenly stung his mind.

What was his strength? Some means of calculated divinity... a great power infused into his mortality? How fleeting was his resolve? How sickly was his mannerism? His weapon was broken. It was a weapon used to break or shatter, be it spirit or vertebrae, there was always a vertice beyond which very little mattered - breaking point. The optimus did not only affect it's victim. It's bearer bore his nightmares because of his uncertainty; dreams of frailty and wildness. He became feral, unbendable, unstoppable.

There was little possibility of return from that sunken dungeon of impotency. But, again and again, the chance was utilized; opportunities of escape growing thin like wire after every expanse. The wildness rippled through his body, spreading like lightning through every muscle.

Whether or not the weapon was dangerous, it remained limitless. Whether or not the weapon was corruptable, it remained present. Whether or not the boy was the weapon, it remained uncertain. The boy waited for the day that he would reach for his cord of sanity... and feel it snap between his fingers.

_**...**_

_******Thank you to everyone that left a review for the last chapter! Supersoda, irish-table, Skylar Bane, Tinian I'att, WhereDidYouGo, HoneyGoddess57, Kristin, and sorcecess of the nile. You guys are absolutely wonderful!**_


	6. Peripatetic Ataraxia

_Peripatetic Ataraxia_

…

Ghosts.

Frigid fliers; phantoms of reason. Cold spirits communicating only through sounds. Whipping. Screeching. Suffocating. Careening through the air like chaotic devils – none would have their fill. Raw, flammable power. None would bear their own will – always searching for something they believed they deserved. That was him…

A ghost.

His bloodstream swallowed their fallacy; his anger ignited their wails. Flashing. Scorching. Choking. Icy silver skin, frozen metal laser. He waited for that reason so oft associated with his metallic temper. He waited; he waited; he slipped.

A ghost.

…

_**Not a very long chapter compared to its predecessors, but I kind of like it. The title came to mind because I'd recently caught wind of the word 'peripatetic' and was in need of an opportunity to utilize it, whereas 'ataraxia' has a much less glamorous backstory – it was the word of the day on and just happened to have a definition that suited my needs. Nonetheless, I'm quite satisfied with this chapter.**_

_**The character, in case you haven't figured it out, is Archie, and I decided to compare him and his whip to ghosts and their stereotypical mythology.**_

_**Thank you very much to the reviewers of the previous chapter: HoneyGoddess5, Sorceress of the Nile, and Tinian I'att.**_


End file.
